Taking a Sick Day
by The Black Sun's Daughter
Summary: Ezekiel does not get sick. He doesn't. Plain and simple. Jacob knows better than that, though, and he's not about to let this idiot run around with a hundred degree fever.


He was not sick. Ezekiel Jones did not get sick. Nope. He was just...coughing like his lungs wanted to escape his chest via his mouth for no reason. It was probably all the dust in here or something like that. Stuff like that always bothered him. Damned allergies. Either way, he had to pause and lean against the counter in the kitchen, covering his mouth with one arm until the fit passed.

"What's the matter with you?" Jacob demanded, his head popping up from behind the door of the fridge.

"Nothing, I'm fine." Ezekiel forcibly stifled another cough in his sleeve and straightened up, trying not to break out in another round of hacking.

The cowboy narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously. "No, you're not," he said, then shut the fridge and crossed the room to Ezekiel, reaching up without any preamble to lay the back of his hand against Ezekiel's forehead. His scowl deepened almost immediately. "Get over here, you idiot, you're not fine." Ezekiel opened his mouth to protest, but the bloody cowboy already had a grip on his arms, practically frog-marching him into the rec room adjacent to the kitchen. "Sit down," Jacob ordered sharply, giving Ezekiel a helpful push down onto the sofa.

"Mate, I'm fine, okay? It's not that bad."

"Not that bad," Jacob repeated flatly. He walked back around the end of the sofa and bent at the waist, pressing his lips against Ezekiel's forehead; the thief went completely still, and if he wasn't warm before, he was quite sure he would be now. Jacob leant back and shook his head. "You're burning up, Jones. Keep your ass on the couch."

"Uhm…o-okay." Ezekiel sank back against the cushions, trying to bring his heartrate back down. _He was just taking my temperature, that's all, bloody hell, Jones, be cool._

A moment later, Jacob was back, this time with a proper thermometer in hand. "Open," he ordered, and Ezekiel opened his mouth without thinking about it. He wasn't quite fast enough to close it, though, and he frowned as Jacob stuck the thermometer under his tongue.

"I'm _fine,"_ he insisted once more, mumbling a little around the glass tube.

"Keep your mouth closed." After a moment, Jacob took it out of his mouth and tilted it slightly towards the light to read the small numbers. "101. You have a fever, and you've been coughing like that all day. How do you feel?" he asked, and when Ezekiel opened his mouth, he added, "And if you say 'fine' one more time, so help me God, Jones, I will pop you."

He stared up at the other man for a moment, glowering, then finally sighed. He wasn't going to win this one. "Tired. Little sore. My stomach hurts," he grumbled unhappily. He did not get sick. He didn't. This was ridiculous.

Jacob scowled a little more. "There's a flu going around. Lay down."

"What? No. Look, mate, I don't need you babysitting me, okay? It's just a spot of fever, I'm _fine."_ Ezekiel stood up to prove his point, but a wave of dizziness swept over him, and he wobbled on his feet, little black spots appearing around the edges of his vision. "Actually…no. I take it back," he mumbled, sinking back down onto the sofa with Jacob's hands on his arms to steady him. He didn't protest when the historian pushed against him a little more, urging him to lay down on the sofa, because that really helped with the dizzy feeling of the room swaying around him.

"Now stay there," Jacob ordered firmly; Ezekiel wasn't arguing this time.

The cowboy walked away again; when he came back, he had a quilted blanket folded over one arm and a damp flannel cloth in the other hand. Ezekiel shivered pleasantly when Jacob laid the damp cloth over his forehead, but the moment the blankets were pulled over him, he immediately felt sweltering hot. "Jesus, mate, you tryin' to kill me?" he muttered, pushing at the blankets, but Jacob insistently tugged them back up to his chin.

"You gotta sweat a fever out, Jonesy. Give it a minute and you'll be freezing," Jacob replied, smoothing the quilt down over him.

Of course, Jacob was right, the git. A few moments, and his teeth were almost chattering, he felt so cold. He slept a little, or he was pretty sure he did. When he woke up again, or whatever, Jacob was still there, sitting on the floor next to the sofa, facing the low coffee table. He had a plate next to him, and he was busily scratching away in the beat-up notebooks that he used for outlining papers he wanted to write. Not that Ezekiel knew anything about that, of course.

Ezekiel must've made some kind of noise because Jacob turned around to look at him. "Hey, you're up. You hungry?"

"Not particularly, no," he mumbled back.

"Figured, but you've been asleep for a while, and you gotta eat. Here. Have some of this." Jacob held out a slice of toast, but instead of butter or vegemite, he had it spread with peanut butter. Ezekiel must've made a face, too, because Jacob sighed and set the toast in his hand. "Just eat it, Jones. Peanut butter's the best thing for you right now."

"Does it help with an upset stomach or somthin'?" he asked curiously; he'd never heard of peanut butter helping a flu. Was it a hillbilly thing?

The historian smirked. "No, but if you puke, it'll taste the same comin' up as it did goin' down," he replied, taking a bite of his own toast.

Ezekiel stared at him for a moment. "You're disgusting," he muttered.

"Shut up and eat your toast." As Ezekiel begrudgingly nibbled on his toast, Jacob leant forward and pressed his lips to Ezekiel's forehead again, brushing his fringe back with one hand. "Mm. Feels like your fever's come down some," he observed when he sat back.

"You're gonna get sick too, keep doin' that," Ezekiel mumbled into his toast, grateful that he could blame the fever for the bright flush he had to be sporting now. What was he, a ten-year-old schoolgirl, blushing over a little kiss on the forehead? Wasn't really even a kiss anyways.

The cowboy gave him a little smirk. "I'm fine," he replied, humour in his eyes, as if he knew exactly what Ezekiel was thinking. He still had his arm leaning up against the sofa, his fingers resting lightly against the top of Ezekiel's head, sifting through his hair, gently rubbing back and forth along his hairline.

"I really am fine, mate," he mumbled, looking away from the warm blue gaze that was so attentively fixed on him. It made him feel…weird. "Y'know, you don't have to take care of me like I'm an invalid or somethin'. I can look after myself." He leant away from the warm hand on his brow, drawing the covers up to his chin even though he was still feverishly hot.

Jacob tugged the blankets back down. "I am aware that I don't have to, punk-ass, but I am going to anyways because you _can't_ take care of yourself, Mr. I'm-Going-To-Work-With-A-Hundred-Degree-Fever," he replied with a smirk. "Besides, I kinda like it." He brushed his fingers over the thief's forehead again, then leant forward and pressed his lips against Ezekiel's, soft and lingering for a moment before pulling back. "Mm. Yeah, I think your temperature's definitely come down."

Ezekiel swallowed hard. "A-are you sure? I feel a bit warm, you should check again."

"You think? Maybe I will…on one condition."

"Mm?"

"Come to dinner with me? There's this place in Madrid that's wonderful."

Ezekiel opened his mouth to answer and was immediately seized by a coughing fit, covering his face with the edge of the blanket as he hacked and sputtered. Jacob hastily turned to pick up his glass of water, holding it so Ezekiel could sip at it slowly. "That was a yes, by the way," he rasped out when he could breathe again without feeling like his lungs were trying to escape his body.

"Good." Jacob kissed his forehead again and set another slice of toast in his hand. "Eat your toast, and I'll get you another icepack. We're not going anywhere until your fever breaks."

"Whatever you say, cowboy."


End file.
